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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141355">11 November</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amhran_na_bhFiann/pseuds/Amhran_na_bhFiann'>Amhran_na_bhFiann</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hawaii Five-0 (2010)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Afghanistan, Canada, Gen, Military Backstory, Remembrance Day, Veterans Day, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:09:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141355</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amhran_na_bhFiann/pseuds/Amhran_na_bhFiann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve reflects on a joint mission with JTF2 that ended in tragedy. Written for Remembrance Day 2018. Lest we forget.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. It describes fictional events that occurred during the War in Afghanistan. Any similarities to factual events or figures are merely coincidental. All reference material was gathered from public sources. </p><p>A/N: I tried to make this story as true to life as I could. I apologise for any factual inaccuracies. </p><p>Originally posted on FanFiction.net for Remembrance Day 2019.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>11 November. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the US, it was Veterans Day. It was a day to honour the service of military veterans that returned and those that did not. In Commonwealth countries, 11 November was Remembrance Day. It was a day to honour and reflect upon the members of the armed forces that made the ultimate sacrifice in the name of their country. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlimited liability. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what differentiated the profession of arms from all other professions. Legally ordered into harm’s way, ready and willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. A blank cheque. A blank cheque made payable to your country, for an amount up to including your life.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 9 November 2008</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The US and Canadian Armed Forces had just launched Operation Green Fields, a joint operation to disrupt insurgency activities by seizing key outposts in the heart of Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. Steve’s team was tasked with seizing a key observational post (OP), however, their main effort though was Jack Robertson. Robertson was an American journalist who had been kidnapped days earlier. A routine presence patrol had spotted Taliban forces dragging what appeared to be an unarmed Westerner into a pick-up truck and driving off into the direction of the OP. The presence patrol lacked the personnel or the firepower to engage. Further intelligence reports confirmed the location of Robertson at the OP. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the time, Lieutenant Steve McGarrett was in a US-led detachment of himself and three other Navy SEALs. With them was a Canadian detachment of four JTF2 personnel. Combined, the two detachments made a section, which Steve was appointed the commander of. Their orders were to secure the hostage, seize the OP, and gather any available intelligence or equipment in that priority. As the section commander, Steve had the freedom to decide their course of action. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve had worked with Canadian Joint Task Force 2 soldiers before and he was impressed by their skills. They were one of the few foreign special forces units that rivalled the coveted SEAL Team 6. He’d never admit to it in person, but Steve had always considered JTF2 one notch above the SEALs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>JTF2 was the ghost of the spec ops community. From movies to video games, Navy SEAL exploits were glamorised in the media. Much of their history, training, and the current organisation was well-known to the public. The open information annoyed Steve. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loose lips sink ships, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he always thought to himself. However, JTF2 was different. A smaller, more concentrated force, they were practically unknown to the general public. Their exploits were kept tight-lipped as was their training. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After receiving his orders, Steve convened with his Canadian 2IC, Sergeant Brooks. The two had met by chance in Kandahar Airfield three months ago. They had been in line for coffee when their orders got mixed up. Steve had picked up Brooks’s NATO standard while Brooks had taken Steve’s black coffee. They quickly realised their mistake by the expressions on their faces and switched cups. The two soon hit it off once they found out they were both spec ops. When workup training for Operation Green Fields began a month ago, Steve was pleasantly surprised to find the JTF2 detachment placed in his command was headed by Brooks himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A large man with a mix of an Irish and English accent that Steve couldn’t quite place, Brooks stood a couple inches taller than Steve and had maybe 20 lbs on him. He was clean-shaven, revealing a small scar that ran from his chin to his lower lip. When Steve had asked about it, Brooks pointed to it and laughed. “Bosnia,” he had said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using recent aerial footage of the area, the two men formulated a plan. The OP looked to be no larger than a hunting cabin. They counted 2 persons outside, guarding the front, with a civilian pickup truck parked near them. There was also an unknown number of persons inside the cabin. That meant there was a chance they would fall short of the 3:1 force ratio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given the distance between the compound and their forward operating base (FOB), they decided to take transport, an American medium support vehicle, up the main supply route at night up until they were at a distance of 3 km to the OP. It would be in the early hours of the next day by the time they were dropped off. The road would be cleared of IEDs the morning before but the men knew that new IEDs could be placed in the meantime. They would have to be careful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After being dropped off, the men would go on foot to the compound. Once they were approximately 200 m away, at their rendezvous point, Brooks would take his Canadian detachment and swing around back at a 45-degree angle, ensuring they weren’t in the crossfire. Once in position, Steve’s detachment would push forward into the compound. As the enemy forces retreated, Brooks’s men would open fire. Steve’s team would then clear and secure the OP, rescuing Robertson before returning to their pick-up point. It would be a simple mission. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Telling Brooks to get the section prepped for orders, Steve went off and gave a backbrief of his plan to his higher up. They would have two days to prep for this.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 11 November 2008</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In the dead of night, a vehicle rumbled by, kicking up dirt as it drove through. The back was covered by a canopy, diverting any peering eyes from the contents it was hauling. Not that most civilians would bat an eye. Military transport vehicles were a common sight in the war-torn country. A sad fact of war. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside, Steve McGarrett sat at the back of the truck bed. Lifting the canopy slightly, he glanced outside and the empty road behind him. Suddenly, the vehicle hit a pothole. Steve grabbed onto the seat with both hands as he was thrown up into the air. He cursed under his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heard a chuckle followed by Brooks’s voice. “Back on ‘da rock, ‘da road to our outpost wasn’t paved.” Sitting across from him, Brooks grinned at Steve. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve looked at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Rock? Brooks was from the Islands too? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“You’re from Hawaii?” he asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brooks had a confused look on his face as he shook his head. “Nah b’y. Newfoundland. ‘Dat’s where I gots ‘dis accent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s that?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Island on ‘da east coast of Canada.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve leaned back into the canopy of the transport vehicle. He’d never heard of Newfoundland but he had a general idea where it was. He still wondered about Brooks’s accent. It was unique alright; he had never heard anything similar. Newfoundland must have its own dialect. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not that different from Hawaii. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I used to live in Hawaii,” Steve began, “We called it ‘the Rock’ too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brooks chuckled. “Maybe Hawaii and Newfoundland aren’t all that different. How much snow do ye guys get?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve laughed. “If it starts snowing in Hawaii, then you know all that climate change shit is real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two of them shared a laugh before Brooks decided to rack out again. Steve went back to his makeshift observational post at the back of the truck bed. As the rest of his men slept, Steve continued peering out of the canopy for any suspicious activity. He checked his GPS. The green backlit screen read 5 km from the drop-off point. He quietly radioed in a sitrep, reading off his current grid reference. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once they were within 1 km of the drop-off point, Steve woke up his sleeping team to prepare them for the dismount. As the vehicle slowed to a halt, Steve and Brooks threw up the canopy, allowing their men to climb out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve jumped off first and jogged over to the front of the vehicle. He radioed in another sitrep, listing off the grid reference for the drop-off location. Once he saw Brooks dismount, he signalled to the driver to leave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray, ‘dis is Sunray Minor. Radio check, over.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>His radio blasted into his ear. He smiled as he recognised it as Brooks’s voice. He always suppressed his accent over the radio. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Too many confused people going, ‘say again’, ‘say again’, if I speaks like ‘dis,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had explained.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunray, you’re all good, over,” Steve sounded off in his radio.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray Minor, loud and clear, out.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Steve saw Brooks give him a thumbs up but a scolding look for his bad radio procedure. It didn’t matter; their comms were good. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve walked back to his team. “We’re 3 clicks away from our objective. Single-file, two-meter spacing. Alpha team, we’ll lead.” Steve gestured to Mike Flores, a young SEAL who had a knack for navigation. He would lead the section, with Steve closely trailing behind. “Delta team, you’ll take up the rear.” He pointed at Healey and Brooks. “2IC, you’re second last man. Make sure we don’t lose anyone.” Brooks acknowledged him with another thumbs up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The night sky and the coarse, rock-face terrain made the 3 km hike seem longer than it was. Steve had estimated it would take an hour and a half. However, it was at nearly the 2-hour mark when Flores raised his hand, indicating a halt. Steve immediately knelt down and passed the signal along through the single-file rank. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the cover of darkness, he saw Flores mouth the words, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>we’re here</span>
  </em>
  <span>’. Steve turned around and gestured towards the rock beside him, establishing it as the rendezvous (RV) point. He watched as his signal was once again passed along back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“1-2 Hotel and Sunray Minor, this is Sunray. Radio check, over,” Steve whispered into his radio. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One last radio check with the command post and Brooks while we’ll still together. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray Minor, you are loud and clear, over,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Brooks said, from his position in the back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve waited for the command post to respond. It took a few extra seconds but nevertheless, he heard the familiar crackle of the radio in his ear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray, this is 1-2 Hotel. You are weak but readable, over.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>They were good to go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunray, commencing phase 2, over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray Minor, acknowledged, out.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve heard Brooks’s detachment, Charlie and Delta team, move behind him. Turning around, he saw four shadowy figures moving to the left of his current position. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“NVGs on boys,” he whispered to his three remaining men. Steve turned on his helmet-mounted night vision goggles (NVGs) and placed them over his eyes. His surroundings turned into a green landscape. Focusing his goggles, he slowly started to make out more defined features of his environment. Walking over to Flores, Steve laid himself down in the prone position, trying to get a clear view of the compound they were to attack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could see the cabin but couldn’t see the pick-up truck he and Brooks had spotted from the aerial footage. Using the scope of his rifle to get a closer look, he still couldn’t see anything to indicate there were people present. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“McGarrett, I don’t see any movement or any signs of Robertson,” said Flores, beside him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned to face Flores, taking his eyes off the target. “Neither do I,” he responded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he could turn back, the familiar and dreaded sound of gunfire erupted. At the same time, his radio crackled to life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Contact wait out!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>his radio screamed before going silent. Although no callsign was given, Steve immediately recognised it as Brooks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, that’s Charlie and Delta,” Steve said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Should we go and help them?” asked Huffman, leader of Bravo team.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, hold our current position. Wait out for their contact report. But, get ready to move. Flores, keep you keep an eye on the compound. Lee, watch our six. Huffman, you take the 9 o’clock. Keep an eye out for Brooks and them.” Steve was met by three head nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gunfire continued. Steve’s radio crackled again.</span>
  <em>
    <span>“1-2 Hotel, ‘dis is Sunray Minor. Contact report, over.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> This time Brooks’s voice was calmer. Steve hoped that it was a sign that the situation wasn’t that serious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“1-2 Hotel, send contact report, over.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The voice of the signaller at the command post sounded weak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray Minor. At least fifteen times enemy dismounted riflemen at grid reference 4-2-Sierra-Tango Whisky-Delta 0-0-9-2-9 3-3-9-2-8. Have been ambushed. One times friendly injured. We are retreating back to RV point, over.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve gulped, quickly copying down the grid reference. He stood up from his prone position and into a kneeling position. “It’s bad,” he said to his men as the gunfire continued in the distance. “They were ambushed by enemy riflemen. One times injured friendly. They’re retreating back to the RV now. Be prepared to lay down covering fire as soon as they fall back.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He entered the grid reference into his GPS and saw they were a little over a kilometre away. Before he could tell his troops Charlie and Delta’s location, his radio went off again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“1-2 Hotel, acknowledged. Send sitrep at RV point, over.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re a click away,” he said, after the radio transmission. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How many enemy forces?” asked Huffman. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least fifteen.” With the NVGs on, Steve saw the look of worry and concern on Huffman’s face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” he said. A solemn silence between the men filled the air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still no sign of movement in the cabin,” whispered Flores, breaking the silence after a couple minutes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger,” Steve said. He remained silent, scanning the environment. The gunfire had died down but there was still no sign of Charlie and Delta. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray Minor, this is 1-2 Hotel. Acknowledge last message, over,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>his radio blasted into his ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, Steve felt his stomach drop. Brooks didn't acknowledge the last message. He didn’t out the radio call. Sometimes, troops would forget to out or acknowledge a message. It happened from time to time. But, Brooks would always. He was known for his strict adherence to radio procedure. Something must have happened to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One times injured friendly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he remembered Brooks saying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve waited, with his finger on the radio, for any more communications from Brooks. He heard the radio crackle. He felt his heart jump. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray Minor, this is 1-2 Hotel. Acknowledge last message, over,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>the signaller repeated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve felt his heart drop once more. It was just the command post radioing in again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray, this is 1-2 Hotel. Confirm you have eyes on Sunray Minor, over.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>This time, the message was for Steve. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunray, we do not have eyes on Sunray Minor. I say again, we do not have eyes on Sunray Minor, over,” he sounded off. He knew his men were looking at him with concern for the other half of their section. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“1-2 Hotel, send sitrep when you have eyes on Sunray Minor, over.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunray, out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, I see movement!” Huffman hissed. He pointed to the path to their left. Moments later, three figures appeared, running towards the RV. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first figure came barrelling towards him, alone. “McGarrett, we need to get the fuck out of here! There’s a whole fucking platoon of guys!” Steve recognised him immediately as Healey. He was Brooks’s partner. They were Delta team. They were supposed to always be together. But, Healey, he stood there alone. Brooks was nowhere to be seen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve was snapped out of his thoughts by gunfire. “Charlie, Delta, get over here!” Steve yelled, abandoning any attempts at remaining stealthy. “Alpha, Bravo, lay down covering fire! Reference 9 o’clock from objective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The three men ran behind the firing line and immediately adopted the kneeling position. They were ready to move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s Brooks?” Steve asked. He suddenly noticed something off about Healey. Something was sticking out on his back. It took him a second to recognise it as the barrel of a rifle. In addition to the weapon he was holding, he had a rifle slung on his back. Steve took a closer look and also saw a radio, with the headset cord cut off and the internal wires exposed, clipped to his tactical vest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence from the three men, combined with Healey’s radio and extra rifle, was all the indication he needed. Brooks was dead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve forced himself to remain focused on the situation. He had six men. He had to get them to the back-up extraction point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Peel back! Peek back!” Steve yelled. He gestured for Charlie and Delta to start retreating back. He felt his adrenaline begin to kick in. “1-2 Hotel, this is Sunray. Contact report, over,” he shouted into the radio.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“1-2 Hotel, send contact report, over.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunray, dismounted enemy infantry. Platoon-sized. One friendly KIA. Retreating to back-up extraction point. Request helivac, over.” He looked over and saw Charlie and Delta were in position for laying down covering fire. “Alpha peel back now! Bravo follow after.” Steve sprinted with his partner, Flores, down the path. The two quickly established a position behind the three Canadians. Seconds later, Bravo team came running towards them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“1-2 Hotel, send helivac, over.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mind went blank. He had forgotten how to do a helicopter evacuation report. That would usually be Brooks’s job. He cursed under his breath. He would just have to wing it. “Sunray, we need helivac for 7 pers. No WIA.” Steve looked down at his GPS. “Approximately, 10 minutes out from back-up extraction point. Will send smoke as signal.” Steve finished the transmission, before suddenly remembering something. “Uh over,” he finished.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“1-2 Hotel, helivac request approved. ETA 15 minutes, over.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunray, thanks, out.” Steve let go of the push to talk and resumed firing. “ETA 15 minutes!” he screamed, “Healey, you send up the smoke at the extraction point.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger!” he heard him yell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The enemy forces were still advancing towards them. They were able to continue holding them off as they peeled back, but he wasn’t sure how long they would be able to secure the extraction point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve looked down at his GPS. “We’re here!” he yelled, “Bravo, Charlie, secure the corners. Bravo take west edge and Charlie take east edge. 50-meter spacing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The four men immediately began fanning out, taking a knee at each corner. “Flores! Healey! Firebase 12 o’clock.” The three established themselves in the prone position, directly facing the enemy forces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of the whirling helicopter blades moments later was like music to Steve’s ears. “Healey, send up the smoke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, sir.” Healey reached into his tactical vest and produced a smoke grenade. He turned around, throwing it into the centre of the square. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Minutes later, he heard his radio go off. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray 1-2, this is Hawkeye 8-6-1, we see smoke. ETA 2 minutes. Get your men ready to load, over.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve let out a sigh of relief. “Two minutes,” he said, “Sunray 1-2, acknowledged, out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The whirling of the helicopter blades slowly got louder. Steve looked up and saw the helicopter was hovering over the smoke signal. As he waited, he continued laying down covering fire for the helicopter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sunray 1-2, this is Hawkeye 8-6-1, ready for loading, over.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sunray 1-2, out.” Steve let go of the push to talk. “Go, go, go!” he yelled at Flores and Healey. The two men sprung up and sprinted to the safety of the helicopter as Steve continued to cover them. Once they were in, Steve left his position and followed the two. He ran. He felt his legs protest but he ignored it. As he ran, he signalled Bravo and Charlie team to begin collapsing the security area. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he reached the entrance, he was immediately greeted by the hand of the door gunner. He graciously accepted as the man pulled him in. Seconds later, he saw Lee sprint over, followed by Charlie team, and finally Huffman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re all good!” the door gunner yelled to the pilots. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve suddenly heard the helicopter blades rotating faster. Glancing outside, he watched as the helicopter began hovering. The door gunner was manning the machine gun, firing down at the enemy forces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing his eyes, he let out a loud sigh. His adrenaline was beginning to wear off and the events of today came crashing down on him. He felt tears begin welling up in his eyes. He had six of his men with him right now. Down there, somewhere, was Brooks.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 25 November 2008</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dedicated to Cpl James Choi of the Royal Westminster Regiment. Cpl Choi passed away yesterday morning during a live-fire training exercise in CFB Wainwright. Rest easy brother.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>To say this mission was a failure was an understatement. It was a disaster. The higher-ups wanted answers as to why intelligence reports did not pick up on the platoon-sized force that had been awaiting Steve’s team. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They stood no chance, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Company Commander had said. It was a miracle that they had gotten out of their with only one casualty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as they touched down in the FOB, all seven of them were taken to be debriefed separately. A week later, Steve found out that the Company Commander had decided to disband his team. They would all be reassigned. Steve didn’t really mind. He liked the guys well enough and would be happy to buy any of them a drink in the mess. However, it was Brooks he had been the closest to. With him gone, it didn’t feel right anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve had tried to ask the higher-ups for information on what had happened, how Brooks had died, but they refused to tell him. It had been two weeks and Steve hadn’t seen any of the JTF2 guys since. He and the three other SEALs had been moved to a separate facility soon after the debriefing. They were on an administrative break as their higher-ups figured out where to assign them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His days now consisted of working out, going to the mess for his meals, and playing cards with his buddies at night. He was on his way to the mess for lunch when he heard someone from behind him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Lieutenant McGarrett!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>the person yelled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning around, he saw it was Healey. Dressed in his desert CADPAT uniform and his tan beret, it was obvious from his stubble that he hadn’t shaved since getting back. He quickly saluted Steve, which he returned. “Healey,” he said, “How you holding up?” He could tell the younger man had been struggling with the death of his partner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look of sadness on his face confirmed his suspicions. “It doesn’t feel right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we talk? About what happened?” Steve asked, “The higher-ups, they never told me anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Healey nodded. “Come on back to my room.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two walked in silence for 10 minutes. They walked to the Canadian area of the housing accommodations. Steve realised that the JTF2 guys were also moved to a different facility. Walking down the hall, they entered a room not too different from Steve’s. Healey shut the door and sat on his bunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened during phase 2?” Steve asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Healey took a breath in. “Brooks was out front, navigating. They ambushed us. There was a platoon of guys waiting for us. He was shot in the arm. We were able to retreat behind a boulder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that when he called in the contact report?” Steve asked, remembering how calm Brooks had been in his final radio transmission. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Healey nodded. “We knew we were significantly outnumbered and decided to retreat. We started to move again. I ran off first to provide covering fire. Then, Brooks ran. They got him twice in the chest. I ran out and dragged him back to the boulder. He was alive but in horrible shape. He made me take his rifle and radio. He had taken one of the insurgents’ rifles. He told us to run, to leave him behind, as he laid down covering fire for us. So...we...we left him…Brooks saved our lives.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Healey reached into his pocket and revealed the bottom half of a military ID disk. The half that was meant to be broken off if the bearer died. Steve picked the piece of stainless steel up and examined it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>AD BROOKS<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>ACC       O/RH/POS<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>CDN FORCES CDN</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve gave the ID disk back. “His family...do they know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were told Brooks died during a routine patrol. That’s it. Nothing about JTF2 or how he saved the lives of his three men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did they know he was JTF2?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Healey shook his head again. “They knew he was special forces. But, we’re not allowed to tell our families about JTF2.”</span>
</p><p><span>The ghost of the spec ops community; not even allowed to let their families know.</span> <span>“That’s not right,” Steve said.</span></p><p>
  <span>Healey shrugged his shoulders. “It's just the way things are. Ironic that Brooks died on 11 November. Remembrance Day. Yet, everything he did...his actions...has already been forgotten.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 9 November 2018</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett was absently watching television. He had a long day at work and needed time to unwind before going to bed. He switched to National Geographic and saw it was a documentary about the War in Afghanistan. Out of boredom, he decided to watch it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The narrator was talking about some American journalist that had been kidnapped in a rural Afghan village. However, Steve found himself more focused on responding to emails on his phone, than the actual documentary.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Government documents collected by our Freedom of Information Act request suggest that US Navy SEALs had attempted to mount a rescue operation but were unsuccessful.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hearing the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Navy SEALs’, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Steve’s head immediately shot up. All interest was diverted to the documentary. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Names have been redacted but we do know this operation took place in November of 2008, shortly after Robertson was kidnapped.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Something was eerily familiar about the story. November 2008. He had been in Afghanistan at the time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, an image of a man flashed in his head. He closed his eyes, scrutinizing the image. The man had a small scar on his chin. He had a funny accent. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Brooks</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It came crashing down on Steve. Operation Green Fields. The ambush. Brooks. Sergeant Brooks. Canadian Special Forces. No, not just Canadian Special Forces, JTF2. The best of the best. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 2008, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Had it really been 10 years?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve felt a wave of guilt flow over him; he had all but forgotten about his friend. He remembered being told that Brooks’s family was never told about how he stayed behind and defended his team as they retreated. His actions were never acknowledged because of the secrecy of JTF2.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve looked at his watch. It was almost 10 pm. He didn’t care that it was late though. Turning off the television, he grabbed his light jacket and truck keys from the kitchen counter and made his way outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found himself speeding to Iolani Palace. He had been tempted to turn on the police lights but the empty road convinced him otherwise. Parking his truck, he ran up the stairs and into the Five-0 HQ. He quickly booted up the touchscreen table and submitted his login credentials. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was about to type in Brooks’s name when he realised that he didn’t even know his first name. Steve cursed at himself. Some friend he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve realised he would have to do this differently. Searching through the list of databases, he finally found one titled ‘Coalition Forces Personnel in Afghanistan’. He clicked on it, typing in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sergeant </span>
  </em>
  <span>as his rank and selecting</span>
  <em>
    <span> Canada</span>
  </em>
  <span> under the country field. He hit search. A list of three files, all titled Sgt Brooks, appeared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clicked on the first result. The file appeared immediately but the picture was loading. Steve quickly read through the short text. The man, Allan Daniel Brooks, had died during a routine patrol on 11 November 2008. Steve sighed. Two more days and it would be the 10th anniversary of his death. This had to be him. Scrolling back up, he noted the picture had finished loading. Double-clicking on it, the image took his breath away. Staring at him was Sergeant Brooks. His Sergeant Brooks. He was smiling, making the scar on his chin much more pronounced. He was dressed in his desert CADPAT and wearing a tan beret. Behind him was the Canadian flag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allan…” Steve whispered to himself, “Your first name is Allan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed the image. Reading through the file again, he noted how there was no mention of JTF2. The text was short and didn’t have much detail on Brooks’s personal information. Making sure to save the file, Steve exited out of the file and typed in Allan Daniel Brooks into Google. The first link was to an online obituary. He clicked on it. It led to the website of a local newspaper. He read over it quickly. The obituary mentioned Brooks had a wife. He hadn't realised he was married. He didn't recall Brooks ever mentioning a partner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at the name of the newspaper. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Deer Lake, Newfoundland,’</span>
  </em>
  <span> the website read. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He searched up the city and found it was on an island North-East of New England. Steve remembered Brooks said he was from an island off the East Coast that was called ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Rock’. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Steve had thought he meant Hawaii. He chuckled at the memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Below the information about Deer Lake was a heading. “Plan trip,” Steve read off. He clicked on the flights’ link. It brought up a list of flights from Honolulu to Deer Lake. He looked at the convoluted flight transfers. “Honolulu to San Francisco to Toronto to Deer Lake…” he trailed off. It was somehow the shortest, taking only 18 hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve looked at his watch. It was 10:20. The departure time was 11:30. That was plenty of time. Without thinking, he bought the ticket. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 11 November 2018</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After going nearly double the speed limit with his sirens on, skipping airport security using his badge, and staring down the new TSA agent who had tried to stop him, he made his flight to San Francisco with ten minutes to spare. The red-eye flight wasn’t that bad. After landing, he had called Danny to tell him he would be taking the next few days off. Danny had cursed him and immediately hung up. It was only after did Steve realise, it would have been 4 in the morning back in Hawaii. His flight to Toronto was also uneventful, although he quickly realised that his light jacket was not enough to keep him warm in the fall Canadian climate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flight to Deer Lake was mostly empty and Steve fell into a restless sleep. The flight attendant's announcement, as they were landing, was what woke Steve up. Looking out the window, he saw a couple lights. It was a stark contrast to the brightly-lit downtown Honolulu. He wondered how many times Brooks flew into the airport at Deer Lake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Departing the small aeroplane, Steve shivered as the crisp, cold, night air hit him. It was well below freezing. He grabbed his coat, wrapping it tightly around himself. The woman walking beside him offered a sympathetic smile. He noticed that she was wearing a red flower on her winter coat. As the rest of the passengers went and picked up their checked-in luggage, Steve walked to the car rental area. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can I help you, sir?” asked the older man, his hair already completely grey, standing behind the desk. He was wearing the same red flower as the woman from before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to rent a car,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I see your driver’s licence?” Steve handed the man his licence. “Hawaii?” the man asked. He pointed to Steve’s thin jacket. “You’re a long way from home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here to visit an old friend,” Steve responded truthfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t say I know anyone in Deer Lake with connections to Hawaii.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that red flower mean?” Steve asked, pointing to the red flower pinned on his jacket, “I noticed a woman on my flight was wearing the same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man smiled. He removed the flower from his shirt and handed it to Steve. “It’s a poppy. It's a symbol of remembrance. In Canada, we wear it on our left breast pocket, over the heart, every November to honour our fallen soldiers.” The man paused and looked at his watch. He smiled. “Well, what do you know. It’s the 11th already. 11 November is Remembrance Day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve took the plastic red flower. “In the US, today is Veteran’s Day,” he replied, looking down at the poppy. Today also marked the anniversary of Brooks’s death. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He died on Remembrance Day, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought to himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and I forgot about him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know the story of 11 November?” the man asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve nodded. “It's the day the guns of Europe fell silent. At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It signalled the end of World War One.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man smiled. “Good to know they teach you this stuff in US schools too.” Steve handed the flower back to the man but he shook his head. “No, I insist you keep it young man. Bring it back to Hawaii with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve smiled. “I will thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, here is your licence, your keys. Have a wonderful time in Deer Lake, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve took his licence and his keys. “Thank you.” He quickly stuffed his licence and the keys into his coat pocket. He took out the poppy and pinned it on his left breast pocket as the man had said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he walked out of the airport, it suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea where to go. He had a name and a picture. That was it. He looked at the airport clock. It was 2 am in the morning. What the hell was he going to do at 2 am in the morning in a random town on the other side of North America? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>First things first, he needed a place to stay. Pulling up his phone, he found a Holiday Inn in the town. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That would have to do, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought to himself. Clutching his jacket once more, he left the warmth of the airport and walked into the frigid night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve found his rental car without issue. It was a four-door grey sedan. Unlocking the driver’s door, he all but jumped in, slamming the door behind him and cranking up the heat. His hand hovered over the heater. “Seat warmers?” he asked himself. Pressing the button, the car seat started warming up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Much better.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As he drove into the town, Steve’s stomach rumbled. The last thing he had eaten was an overpriced sandwich in Toronto. He spotted the Holiday Inn on his right but he decided to follow the road signs into town to grab something to eat. He drove past what appeared to be a fast-food restaurant. The lights were on and people were inside. Steve took his chances and pulled into the parking lot. Looking at the restaurant sign, a wave of familiarity washed over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tim Hortons. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s where he would get his coffee in Afghanistan. The Tim Hortons in Kandahar Airfield. That’s where he also met Brooks. He smiled, remembering how he accidentally took Brooks’s NATO standard. It was so sweet that he had almost spit it out. Meanwhile, the look of disgust on Brooks’s face when he drank his cup was enough had almost been cartoon-ish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving the warmth of his car, he quickly ran into the establishment. Besides the older woman behind the counter and the younger man, dressed in a hardhat and steel toed-boots who she was talking to, the restaurant was empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, me ‘dear. How may I helps ya?” the woman asked. Steve immediately noticed she had the same English-Irish accent as Brooks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um...hi...can I get two breakfast sandwiches?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course me love.” She smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paying by debit,” Steve said. He realised he only had US currency on him. He would have to get that exchanged. He tapped his debit card.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be right ‘dere with yer sandwiches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Steve walked over to a table and sat down. The younger man, the construction worker, slowly sauntered his way over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“y’ from ‘da mainland ain’t yeah?” he asked. His accent was thicker than both the woman’s and Brooks’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of habit, Steve immediately responded, “No, I’m from the island. I moved to the mainland when I was 15.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve realised his mistake when the man eyed him with suspicion. “Where y’ longs to, ‘den?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where y’ from?” the man repeated, this time slower. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where are you from? </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s what he was saying. “I’m actually from Hawaii. I moved to the US mainland when I was 15. Force of habit when people ask me if I’m from the mainland.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s expression softened up a bit at his explanation. “Hawaii?” He looked impressed. “Whaddya doin’ in Deer Lake ‘den?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m looking for my friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deer Lake is a small place, b’y. Whatcha friend’s name? If I don’t knows ‘im, I knows someone who knows ‘im.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve pulled out his phone and showed him a picture of Brooks. It was the picture of him in his  desert CADPAT from his personnel file. “His name is Allan Brooks. We served together in Afghanistan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The instant look of recognition and shock on his face made Steve hopeful. “Mudder! Get out ‘ere!” he yelled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, whaddya want me son?” the woman, who Steve now knew was the younger man’s mother, responded. She sounded annoyed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ye gonna wanna see ‘dis mudder,” he shouted back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve watched as the woman, looking annoyed, walked around the counter. “Whaddya want Tyler?” She looked over at Steve apologetically. “I’m sorry if ‘dis man has been annoyin’ ye. He’s annoyed me for ‘da past 25 years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mudder!” Tyler protested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, it’s OK. He hasn’t been bothering me. I was just talking to your son about finding my friend.” He showed his phone to the mother. “His name is Allan Brooks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon seeing the photo, the woman had a similar look of recognition. “‘Dat’s Bella’s widow! How’dya know Allan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve felt it weird referring to Brooks by his first name. It didn’t suit him. He’d always be Brooks in his mind. “We served in Afghanistan together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me God. Allan passed away on Remembrance Day,” she responded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve nodded. “Ten years ago today,” he paused, “I was with him, the day he died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw the look of shock on her face. “Forget ‘da sandwiches, me love. Yer comin’ with me!” She grabbed Steve’s arm and dragged him towards the exit before he could protest. “Tyler, close up ‘da shop wouldya?” she called after her son. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard a begrudged, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, mudder.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve wasn’t sure what was happening. Was this lady kidnapping him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman walked him towards what he presumed was her car. She unlocked it and gestured for Steve to go into the passenger seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I forgots ta introduce meself. I’m Alice Crocker.” She stuck out her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steve McGarrett.” Steve shook her hand. “Where are we going?” he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bella Brooks’s house. She’s an old friend. We went to school together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s Allan’s widow?” Steve asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice nodded. “She was ‘eartbroken when she got ‘da news that he passed. Cried for ‘tree days straight. She’s always asked ‘da army if she could talk to ‘da men on ‘da patrol with Allan, ‘da day he died. They’d never respond.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve felt horrible for not reaching out to Brooks’s widow earlier. He had always reached out to the families of his fallen friends. Brooks was the exception. Due to the classified nature of their mission and the secretiveness of JTF2, combined with their different nationalities, he had forgotten about his friend over the years and therefore, never contacted his surviving family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alice pulled into the driveway of a small detached home. She turned off the engine and got out of the car. Steve followed her up the steps to the front door. He nearly jumped when she suddenly began pounding on the door. “Bella open up!” she yelled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve looked at his watch. It wasn’t even 3 am. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on Bella! I know yer in ‘dere!” she yelled, still pounding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um...you know its OK, we can come back at a later time,” Steve said. He glanced nervously around the neighbourhood. This was a surefire way to get a noise complaint. He didn’t want to have to explain to the local police what a Hawaiian police officer was doing with a woman who was pounding on someone’s door at 3 am in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense me dear,” she said. Before she could resume knocking, Steve heard movement on the other side of the door. He heard the door being unlocked. A woman who looked to be in her mid-forties opened the door. Her hair was a mess and she was in her pyjamas. She had obviously just woken up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alice? Whatcha doin’ ‘ere?” the woman asked. She didn’t sound annoyed; just confused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bella! ‘Dis is Steve McGarrett.” Steve waved at Bella who continued standing in the doorway, looking at Alice and Steve with nothing but confusion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does he need from me?” she asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steve ‘ere served wit Allan. In Afghanistan. He was wit Allan ‘da day he died,” Alice said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve saw the confusion on Bella’s face turn into happiness. “Ye...ye knows Allan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded. The expression on Bella’s face turned sorrowful, as tears began to well up. She launched herself at Steve, embracing him. “So long...I’ve asked...I just wanted ta’ talks to someone wit Allan on ‘dat patrol. I have so many questions.” She was now crying into his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna heads out now,” Alice said from behind the two. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve and Bella stood in her doorway for what he thought was an eternity before pulling away. “Where are me manners? Please, come in dear,” she said, gesturing Steve to come in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve walked in, grateful for the warmth of the house. He slipped out of his boots and placed them by the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, make y’self at home. Would ya like some tea?” she asked, walking into another room. Steve followed her and found her in the kitchen, filling a kettle with water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it's OK.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have a seat! Please,” she said, gesturing at the dining table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve walked over and took a seat. Bella appeared minutes later with a mug of tea in her hands and what appeared to be a manilla envelope under her shoulder. In the brightly-lit dining room, Steve got his first clear look at Bella. Her dark brown hair was sprinkled with grey hairs. If it weren’t for her wrinkles and greying hair, she would have looked 15 years younger. Her blue eyes, reddened by crying, were still bright but there was a sense of tiredness to them that Steve immediately recognised had come from too many sleepless nights of not knowing how a loved one was doing. It had been ten years since Brooks died but he could still see the pain in her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sat down across from Steve, placing the mug and envelope on the table. She gave him a warm smile. “Ye served with Allan, eh?” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded. “Afghanistan. October 2008. We were assigned to the same team,” he paused, “We actually met a few months before in Kandahar Airfield at the Tim Horton’s there. They had mixed up our orders.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled as if remembering an old memory. “He’d always get a double-double. ‘dey called it somethin’ different ‘dere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve wasn’t sure what a double-double was. He did, however, remember what Brooks would order. “NATO standard?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bella’s face lit up. “Yes, a NATO standard! ‘Dat’s what ‘dey called it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I got his NATO standard, I nearly gagged at how sweet it was,” he chuckled, “He didn’t fare any better with my black coffee.” Bella broke out laughing. It was a genuine laugh and Steve couldn’t help but laugh along with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the laughter subsided, Bella reached over to the envelope and carefully pulled out its contents. It was filled with pictures of Brooks in his uniform and letters home addressed to Bella. Steve picked up the photo closest to him. It was a picture of Brooks. A much younger looking Brooks. He was sitting on a truck bed by himself, giving a thumbs up and grinning widely. He was dressed in olive green fatigues with a sky blue beret. He recognised it as the UN peacekeeping beret. This must have been before he went special forces. Steve flipped the photo over. On the back, written in blue pen it read: </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pte Allan Brooks, RCR<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Bosnia 1992</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Dat was Bosnia,” Bella said, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “It was his first deployment. We had just gotten married a month before. We were on our way to the airport for our honeymoon to Vancouver when he found out he was leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve placed the photo down. “That’s where he got the scar on his chin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “He tripped over a rock and hit his chin on an armoured vehicle. He needed ‘tree stitches to patch him up. His friends would always tease ‘im about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve chuckled. Brooks wasn’t known for his clumsiness. “He never told me how he got the scar. Only that it happened in Bosnia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was embarrassed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve picked up another picture. This time, he was in his green dress uniform wearing a tan beret. He was shaking the hand of another, older man. Looking at the bars on the other man’s epaulettes, Steve saw he was a Major. On the back, it read:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>MCpl AD Brooks, CANSOFCOM<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Basic Para 1996</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve wasn’t familiar with the acronym. But, judging from his tan beret, he was special forces at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Dat was after his parachute course,” Bella added, “He had just been promoted to Master Corporal and was recruited into special forces. The parachute course was ‘da first course they gots him to go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You knew he was special forces?” Steve asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bella nodded. “That’s the one ‘ting he could tell me. I assumed ‘dat’s why ‘da government didn’t want to tell me what happened to him.” She looked down at her lap. “What did ya do with Allan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Much of the work I did with your husband was classified,” Steve confessed. It pained him not being able to tell Bella the whole truth about her husband.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t flinched at Steve’s statement. He knew that she had heard the phrase ‘it's classified’ all her life. She looked up. “He was JTF2, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her question was so blunt that Steve didn’t even register it until he felt his chest tighten. He tried hiding the shocked expression on his face. How did he know? She wasn’t supposed to know. “I can’t say,” he responded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bella smiled at him. This time, the smile almost seemed pained. “It’s OK. I’ve always had me suspicions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An awkward silence hung in the air. Steve continued looking at the assortment of photos while Bella remained still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did he die?” her pained voice suddenly cutting through the silence like a knife, “‘Da government never told me. ‘Dey said he died on a patrol. But, what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve took a deep breath in. “I can’t get into details. But, do know. Brooks...Brooks...he sacrificed himself to save three of his men. They were ambushed. He stayed behind and provided covering fire so his men could escape. Those men got to go home because of your husband. He’s a hero.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw the tears well up in Bella’s eyes again. She looked down at the photos, picking up one in particular. She set it in front of Steve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a photo of eight men. They were standing on a rock berm. Behind them, was the alien-like landscape of Afghanistan. They were all dressed in desert camouflage and tactical vests, with rifles in their hands. Seven of the eight men had their faces digitally blurred out. Steve looked closer at the one man whose face wasn’t blurred. He recognised him instantly. It was Brooks. He flipped the image over. Typed, the caption read, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Last known photo of Sgt AD Brooks. November 10, 2008’.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve felt his heart beat faster. Turning the photo back over, he took a closer look at the other seven men. He stopped at the man standing in the rightmost corner. He had a radio clipped to him and wore a pair of black gloves. The gloves had a plastic knuckle guard that shimmered in the sunlight. He recognised them instantly. They were his favourite tactical gloves. The man in the picture was him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That meant the other six men, were the remaining members of his team. Steve hadn’t remembered having his team’s picture taken. Yet, here in front of him, was the proof that they did. Judging by the position of the sun, the photo was taken in the late afternoon. They had stepped off hours later once the sun went down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up and made eye contact with Bella, who was wiping tears away from her eyes. “The man on the right,” he pointed to himself, “that’s me. This photo must have been taken a few hours before we stepped off. I don’t even remember taking this photo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Dat’ all ‘dey sent me when I asked for information about his death,” she said. She continued to wipe away the tears. “I’ve always wondered who ‘dose men were.” She reached over, taking Steve’s hands. “I’m glad I gots ‘ta meet one of ‘dem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two continued to talk until the sun rose. They exchanged stories of Brooks, laughing along to the funny ones and solemnly remembering the sorrow ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At 10 am, Bella stood up. “I hope ye don’t mine but every year, I always visit Allan’s grave. Would y’ like to join me?” she asked. Steve agreed immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Steve walked outside, he was grateful that it was warmer today. Bella walked out moments later, wearing a jacket with a poppy pinned to it. As they pulled into the parking lot of the cemetery, Steve saw what appeared to be a small military ceremony around the cenotaph near the entrance of the cemetery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Parking her car, the two walked up the rows of gravestones. Bella stopped. Steve looked at the gravestone she was staring at. It read:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Allan D Brooks<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>The Royal Canadian Regiment <br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
    <span>Afghanistan<br/>
</span>
  
  <em>
    <span>9 February 1973 - 11 November 2008<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>Lest We Forget</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They never recovered his body,” she said, “We buried an empty casket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clock struck 11:00. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the distance, Steve heard the Last Post being played. Followed by silence. Steve closed his eyes. Suddenly, he was back in Afghanistan. He was in the unlit transport vehicle, peeking out from under the canopy cover. He saw Brooks’s shadow across from him. He was laughing. His laugh wasn’t loud, but it was joyous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence was ended by the sound of a bugle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bella knelt down, removing the poppy from her coat. She placed it gently on top of the gravestone. “I will always remember you, Allan,” she whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve followed suit. He removed his poppy. Slowly, he knelt down and placed the red flower onto the base of Brooks’s gravestone. “Never again will I forget.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>100 years ago, the guns of Europe fell silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>10 years ago, Sergeant Allan Brooks’s heart fell silent. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dedicated to Sgt Shane Stachnik (1975 - 2006). </p><p>Sgt Stachnik was a combat engineer section commander serving with 23 Field Squadron of 2 Combat Engineer Regiment based out of Western Ontario. He was popular, well-liked among his troops and an accomplished leader. He assisted with the Winnipeg flood relief in 1997. He worked with the Disaster Assistance Response Team (DART) in Sri Lanka after the 2004 tsunami as a water supply section commander. He served 2 tours in Bosnia and was on his second tour of Afghanistan.  </p><p>On 3 Sept 2006, Sgt Stachnik was killed in a Taliban ambush during Operation Medusa, a Canadian-led offensive operation in Kandahar Province. Sgt Stachnik's light armoured vehicle was hit by a Taliban rocket-propelled grenade. Three other Canadian soldiers were killed in the ambush. Operation Medusa was a critical victory for coalition forces in the War of Afghanistan</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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